Page 110 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“I might make it my mission to break each and every one of your rules.” The darkness in his eyes threatens to do just that.
“Congratulations. You’ve just officially become the world’s most obnoxious cowboy.”
He chuckles. “Or the most interesting.”
“Hardly.”
“And you like country crying ballads.”
I do.
“And we don’t buy jerky from other businesses.” He snatches my jerky and throws it in a bush.
Then he takes a step so close that I can feel the heat of his body. “And it’sourbucket list: yours and mine. And when I say ‘our bucket list,’ it’s not just words. It’s a promise.”
20: BALLS DEEP
HART
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WE’RE NOT TEN minutes on the road, and I catch her staring.
A spark of heat runs through my spine, and I flex my arms. “Admiring the muscles, the healing stab wound on my shoulder, or my gut where you punched me?”
There are few things in life more satisfying than piloting a thirty-foot bus or riding a stallion through the open plains, but watching Jade Fox slowly combust in the passenger seat ranks number one.
She rolls her eyes. “Just checking how well you patched your shoulder up. Looks like a shoddy job.”
“Pretending to care about my wound but really checking out my muscles. Our secret.”
“Your ego’s unreal.” She scoffs. “And trust me, I’ve learned my lesson. You really think I’d fall for that again? You’re the last guy I’d ever check out. You treat women like disposable objects, just notches on your bedpost. No thanks.” She opens the paper map.
For as long as I can remember, crawling under her skin and settling there like a splinter had been my goal.
Today feels different.
Hits different.
It’s that damn bucket list book she’s protecting from me, wedged between her thigh and the seat.
It doesn’t make a difference; I know every entry.
Every item on that list.
Every single damn word.
She leans over the crumpled, ancient map, her hair falling loose where her hat usually sits.
“We need the fastest route.” She squints at the faded lines.
Back in school, she didn’t wear it, but now? It never leaves her head, but she’s tossed it on the dashboard with her Aztec sweater.
I can’t help but notice the little things—the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her shoulder blade. And how hard my nipples are from the blasted air conditioning.
Do I regret ripping off my T-shirt to make her squirm?
Not in the slightest.
